Endeavour. #40

Trevena. Cornwall. 26 April 2018

Calling from above, the humble Wren sings late into the evening; oblivious of humanity. 

Below, the penny dreadful people slam their shots in an effort to impress their vacuous peers.

Industrious labour, nest building in fading light. Time is always too short and the weather always too fickle. 

The f-ers and blinders, the empty vessels, the 'what's wrong with this country' sages hold centre stage. 

The little cave dweller, Troglodytes troglodytes, more noble and worthy than its human counterpart. 

Empty heads with crocodile shirts perform, knowing the price of everything and the value of nothing. 

Back and forth little bird, back and forth. Working hard and harder still, then erupting in joyous exuberance. 

The shameful loudmouths, emboldened by silence, now have a platform to vent their spleens.

Quiet above now; as darkness covers the natural world. A simpler, more just world of effort and reward...



Dark Peak. #39

Stanage Edge. Derbyshire. 22 April 2018

The weakling sun confronts bleak upland once more; bringing light and warmth to high foreboding crags.

Far off Song Thrush continues its mourning lament. Cutting through the lower woodland and piercing the open spaces.

Underfoot the heather and crowberry give substance to the hidden, saturating, blanket bog. Under too much pressure from organised feet.

Swathes of cottongrass waft in the rising. Nothing else exists in exposed acidic places. Last chance, last throw of the ecological dice.

Mountain Hare give tantalising glimpses of  foothold life; hard life made harder by the legal slaughter. All in the name of 'high' Grouse management. Game bird abundance, but nurtured to kill. 

Hen Harrier should be here aplenty; but illegal destruction of nests and birds robs the skydancer from its skies, and shames us all.

Gritstone 'edge', the climbers playground, more relevant still as nature's fortress. Wild managed places, watched and wondered; high breeding ground for 'summer' Ring Ouzel...



Dawn. #38

Cley Marshes NWT. Norfolk. 16 April 2018

The welcoming sun lifts finally from the horizon and lights the gently moving phragmites; slowly emerging from night-time gloom.  

The protective edges of the creek play host to a silent diving Dabchick, still in winter feather; and its unwanted neighbour, the ever boisterous, squabbling, Coot.

Bearded Reedling flit between awakened reedbeds separated by boardwalks, their 'tiny bells' call alerting both the aware and the curious. All whirling wings and laboured flight. 

Nearby trees resound with an early morning Stormcock; its 'bellweather' name more apt here; with the brooding clouds magnifying the vastness of the sky. 

Lifting from the new mirror surface and flying low overhead; Mallard earn their 'wild duck' name. Cautious and skitty, so prized by generations of winter wildfowlers.

Lapwing call above the drying fields and tumble in wonderous spring displays. Wheeling Green Plover, enigmatic Peewit; bird of many names...



Trees. #37

Thetford Forest. Suffolk. 10 April 2018

A watery sun sends fingers prodding bare uprights. Beginning buds pertruding; notched, but not out yet. Still too early, still waiting to shine. 

Short cropped enclaves bathed by weak catch lights. Highlighting Mistle Thrush cackling its dominance; its cold upright stance, for those that can see.

Flocks of Chaffinch work the timber; sharp calls of 'pink' rebounding the space. Amongst them; Brambling, still here, still following. Willing companions before the long journey home .

Overhead, massed 'chack' Jackdaw, drown out 'tseu' Siskin. Shouting and singing, the loud and the dainty. But only one purpose as night draws in.

Solitary Muntjac 'bark' in the distance. Grunting unseen, unmistakably heard. Stripping bramble and bark, the undergrowth invader. A 'sign' calling card demonstrating their will.

The interior is listening; rodents scuffling and gnawing. A silent cloaked Tawny Owl drifts out from the gloom; It's time for hunting, it's time to provide...



Déjà vu. #36

Pointe de la Varde. Brittany. 03 April 2018

So familiar, so unknown, another celtic coastline; desolate and forbidding in the cold grey light. Both untouched and unravelled, a quandary for the watcher; as storm meets sun, in false solitude. 

Pristine blown sand devoid of trespass, save for the gulls raking the strand. Squabbling hard over inedible offerings: persuing the victor long from the shore. 

A lone Dunnock sings from a salt perch of dwarf scrub. A reedy voice from a cryptic shell. Risk against reward, its reason for being. Life, ever vigilant, seen from the bow.

Short cropped grasses move uninvited, patrolled in bounds by driven Wheatear. Feeding between flurries of raindrops and sand spikes; necessary fuel for the promise ahead.

Springtail leap from the quietly rotting kelp beds. Their shelter exposed by the gathering Crows: lifting and clawing, delicate feeding; morsel by morsel, they empty the trough. 

The watery sun drifts over the seascape. The wind lifts the sand and presses the dunes. It's so near and so close, the sounds and the silence. It's calling me back, it's calling me home...

 


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